


The Razor's Edge

by Little_Ghost14



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Gore, Caning, Mental Instability, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is his own warning, Sexual Violence, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Little_Ghost14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know I'm late to the Thramsay party, but I wrote this years ago.  Having found it again while going through old files, I thought I may as well post it rather than deleting it.  Anyway, I don't normally write this sort of thing so I hope it doesn't come across too amateurish.  I doubt I'll write anything of its ilk again, but I wanted to try my hand at it.  </p><p>Trigger Warnings:  blood, violence, abuse, whipping, Ramsay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Razor's Edge

It was always worse in the dark. When the lanterns burned low and he could only see an inch in front of his face.  When the rest of the dungeon was cloaked in shadow and the silence was a suck hole that dragged him into its depths. Sometimes, he was locked in the kennels where gimlet-eyes hounds went wild at the first whiff of his putrid scent. But the frenzied barking was nothing compared to the silence. With no distractions, his imagination ran free, conjuring up the possible horrors Ramsay had in store for him. Would he lose another toe, would another tooth be lovingly teased out of his head, would he lose some skin or would Ramsay be in a whipping mood? Theon could never second guess his master and Ramsay was full of surprises.

 

Bound to the wooden frame, immobilised and in pain, he could only wait. And the waiting seemed to take forever. Sometimes it would be only an hour; sometimes whole days and nights passed before his master came to mete out the punishment. But Theon knew better than to hope his transgressions had been forgiven and forgotten. This time, he knew, it would be bad.

 

The incident occurred that morning, as he wet shaved his master’s jaw. He had been working quietly, methodically scraping the razor over his chin ever so carefully, when Ramsay’s eyes suddenly opened and startled him. It was like that now. The slightest movement, the smallest sound from him terrified Theon so much he was reduced to a trembling wreck. His hand slipped, the razor’s edge nicked the skin and he watched in mounting terror as fresh, bright blood budded against his master’s pale jaw. Ramsay’s countenance changed, hardening as he touched the cut and studied the red tips of his fingers. Theon had tried to apologise, but the words caught in his throat and he could only stammer and buckle beneath the weight of his own deadening fear.

 

“Reek,” said Ramsay, quiet and dangerous. “Can you see what you’ve just done to me?”

 

Once again, terror had him beyond words. Nothing came out except an incomprehensible whimpering, followed by the shameful patter of urine dripping on the stone floor as it trickled down his leg. Ramsay glanced downwards, at the tell-tale stain spreading over the front of his servant’s already filthy breeches. A grin spread over his face, enjoying every moment of his subtle torture.

 

“Oh dear me, it seems you’ve had another accident, Reek,” he drawled. “What do you do now?”

 

Still clutching the razor, he quickly grabbed a wet cloth and wiped the blood from master’s chin. Only then did he stoop to clean up the other mess he made. Looking back now, he didn’t know how he managed to finish the shave after that, but he did. And, as always, Ramsay was not in a forgiving mood. He sat up, pale blue eyes bulging with glee at the prospect of dishing out retribution, and beckoned him closer.

 

He spoke as if he were sending a recalcitrant toddler to sit in the corner. “You know you’ve got to be punished now, don’t you?”  

 

Theon nodded, not daring to meet his gaze. “Yes, master. I deserve to be punished.”

 

“Yes you do, Reek!” Ramsay agreed, becoming more animated. “Now, go to the dungeon and wait quietly.”

 

The razor slipped from Theon’s hand, landing on the stone floor with a sharp clatter that made him flinch. In response, the smile on Ramsay’s face hardened into a stern scowl.

 

“Pick that up and off you go.”

 

He had been escorted to the dungeon by two of Ramsay’s henchmen, relieved of his shirt, bound up to the frame and left to stew in his own souring juices.

 

Down there, time soon lost all meaning to him. He could no longer tell if he had been waiting for minutes, or hours, or even days. Usually, he was left so long that he silently begged and prayed – to the old gods, new gods and drowned god – that Ramsay would come, just to get it over and done with. Often, after so long left alone with his imagination and fear of the hell to come, Ramsay’s appearance made him break down and weep, just for the sake of seeing another living person.

 

He feared Ramsay, but he needed Ramsay. Ramsay was the very fulcrum upon which his life revolved. Ramsay could be tender or cruel, playful or malicious, depending on what he, Theon, did. He was always guessing, always jumping through hoops and always falling down again. Ramsay gave him life, while stripping his existence away layer by layer.  Now, he was too weak to die, but no longer strong enough to keep living. 

 

With no support for his head, it soon felt heavy and cumbersome; the pain in his neck blending in with everywhere else.  All he could do was tilt his face down, so his chin rested against his collar bone.  He stayed like that until he heard the key in the lock of the door at the top of stone, turnpike stair.  Ramsay’s footsteps were slow, deliberate.  Echoing off the cold stone walls as he made his descent, drawing closer and closer and closer.

 

Theon lifted his head, feeling like his brain had been replaced with lead and turned toward the source of the noise.  Still too dark to see, he knew what his first sight would be: the light of the oil lantern illuminating the stones of the dungeon a mottled yellow as Ramsay progressed farther down the spiralling steps.  He would follow the light, his face up-lit and leering through the gloom.  He flinched, straining against his bindings as though there some realistic chance of escape.  But all that happened were the tithes bit into his meagre flesh, drawing first blood long before Ramsay got the chance to do so. 

 

When Ramsay did materialise, Theon’s skin began to crawl; nerves stretched taut as the cell door was opened.  The whine of the rusty hinges carried in the foetid air, causing him to grit what was left of his teeth.  With his tormentor in the cell with him, he could no longer look.  He twisted his neck, so his nose nudged at his exposed armpit and had no choice but to breathe in the rank smell of his own sweat.  If only looking away could but a stopper in his remaining senses.  Even with his eyes closed he could sense his master’s presence, could feel the air move as he closed the gap between them and could all too well imagine the look in his eyes.

 

“Have you been good since I sent you down here?”

 

Ramsay expected an answer, but all Theon could muster was a jerk of his head and a pitiful whimper. 

 

“What was that, Reek?  I didn’t quite hear you.”  He was in a teasing mood now, but his tone grew menacing as he added: “Now, look at me.”

 

He couldn’t.  But some unknown force seemed to turn his head for him, slowly and not without resistance.  Ramsay was barely an inch from his face and Theon could feel his breath against his skin, an almost ticklish sensation.  The oil lantern had been hung on a hook on the wall and now, Theon could see almost everything. 

 

“Have you been behaving yourself down here?” he repeated the question, slowly this time.

 

Air rattled through Theon’s battered chest as he drew a deep breath.  “Y-yes, M-master.”

 

In response, Ramsay’s expression was like that of a disbelieving parent. “Oh, Reek.  I wish I could believe you, really I do.  But, for some reason, I’m having a hard time doing so.”

 

Theon cringed, sucking in his already gaunt belly and trying to put distance between them.  But he knew what he had done, he had lied.  Remorse filled him as he realised how much worse he had just made things for himself.  His brow creased pleadingly as he reeled off the character traits he possessed that would always see him pinned to this frame. 

 

“Because I can’t be good, master.  I’m always bad and wrong and weak.  I cannot help it; it’s what I am.”  He felt his head dropping again, through shame as well as exhaustion now.  “I always need to be punished.”

 

Ramsay was more gratified by that answer.  His grin widened and he nodded his head.  “That’s better.  You are completely hopeless, Reek.  Still, I try my best to make you a better person don’t I?  I’ve never given up on you, like Robb Stark and his father did.  That’s true, isn’t it?”

 

Some small part of him still knew it was all lies.  That Eddard Stark was only real father he had ever had; that Robb had never abandoned him, that Robb had once loved him as a brother.  But that had to be stamped out.  But that part of him was getting smaller by the hour.

 

“Yes, master,” he blurted out before his thoughts could grow defiant.  “You never give up on me.”

 

Ramsay moved swiftly and Theon just caught the glimmer of the razor’s edge flashing in the light.  Bracing himself for the searing pain of the blade cutting through his skin, he clenched his jaw and swallowed the scream.  But all that happened was that the bindings loosened and his hands were suddenly freed.  Unprepared, he fell in a heap in the dirty matted straw at Ramsay’s feet.  His knees throbbed where they’d hit the ground and his wrists were aflame from where the bindings had gnawed at his skin, but he looked up at Ramsay with pathetic gratitude etched in his face.  He dared not believe he was being freed until Ramsay said so, but he succumbed to the ray of hope. 

 

Ramsay heaved an exaggerated sigh as he looked down at his new pet.  “Get up, Reek.”

 

He obeyed quickly, despite the pain he was in.  Unsteady and clumsy, he was too stiff to stand straight. 

 

“Am I forgiven now?”

 

“Forgiven?” Ramsay repeated, laughter resounding round the empty chamber.  “You really ought to know by now, you cannot be forgiven unless you have atoned.  Now turn around and face the frame.  Out your arms around middle.”

 

Bile hit the back of his throat as he did as he was told.  As he did so, he caught sight of the horse whip looped around the door handle.  A vicious looking leather instrument with a knotted end and metal handle.  But he dared not protest as he wrapped his arms around the join in the “X”, at its narrowest point.  He crossed his wrists, holding them up for Ramsay to tie with a length of hempen rope.  Once more, he found himself looking into the darkness that the lantern couldn’t reach, listening to sounds behind him.  Ramsay’s footsteps crunching through the brittle matted straw, the lash being flexed as he flexed his right arm in preparation.  All the while, Theon tried to make himself as small as possible, hugging the wooden frame tight like a child’s comfort blanket. 

 

He counted the seconds: one … two … three …and the first lash of the whip whistled behind him, cracking against his bare skin.  The sound ricocheted down the chamber as a white hot pain seared across his flesh, knocking the breath from his lungs.  He couldn’t have screamed, even if he wanted to. 

 

Behind him, out of sight, Ramsay was in no hurry.  He enjoyed taking his time.  His methods were always slow, deliberate and measured; never acting in the heat of anger.  The torture was to be savoured.  Only when Theon began to compose himself did the second lash sail through the air, tearing at the already battered skin.  He bit into his lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.  On the third, tears filled his eyes; the salt stinging as it came into contact with his bleeding lip.  But that was nothing compared to the fire blazing across his back.  The fourth and fifth had him wailing piteously and straining against the bindings on his wrist.  His body jerked so violently against the seventh and eighth lashes that he almost knocked the frame over.  On the morrow, his chest would be bruised but his back would be raw for weeks to come.  Unmoved by his plight, Ramsay kept lashing him, slowly and methodically. 

 

By the time the punishment stopped Theon had lost count.  Panting, he sagged against the frame and would have fallen completely had it not been there to stop him.  He sobbed openly, thinking of the ruin his back would be now.  He could feel the warm blood, oozing from the open welts and trickling into the wounds below to form a veil of blood down his torn and tattered skin. 

 

After a full two minutes, Ramsay’s footsteps broke the silence, drawing closer to him once more.  Theon flinched again as he felt the cruel whip still in his master’s hand.  Then, it was dropped at his feet.  But when he did not appear to remove the bindings, Theon lifted his head and tried to twist his neck around to see what was happening.  An act of impertinence that earned him a sharp whack to the backside with a wooden rod that had been propped against the wall.  The yelp escaped him before he knew it was coming. 

 

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” Ramsay was icily calm as he asked the question.

 

Beyond speech, Theon tried to nod. 

 

“I can’t hear you.”

 

Theon braced himself for another lick of the whip or rod.  Drawing the moment out, Ramsay let him wait in baited agony.  But when he did move again, he let the pads of his fingers trail over Theon’s hips, just beyond the waist of his breeches.  Slowly, he encircled Theon’s waist from behind in an act of intimacy completely at odds with the thrashing being meted out just minutes before.  Theon twitched and flinched under Ramsay’s sinister touch, sucking in his belly again as he felt the lacing at the front of his breeches being tugged open.  Powerless to do anything to prevent it, he felt his breeches being yanked down. A cold draught buffeted his exposed bottom and thighs now, his nerves prickling unpleasantly at the prospect of more pain to come. 

 

From the tail of his eye, Theon could just make out the long, thin cane that Ramsay picked up and aligned against the back of his thighs.  He was sobbing all over again before the first stroke even landed.  The second and third strokes were lashed into his bottom, before his thighs came in for the same with the fourth and fifth strokes.    There was no pretence at bravery now.  He wailed and howled as each stroke was laid against his bare skin, setting the flesh ablaze.  Ramsay pushed him and pushed him, bringing him to the very brink of unconsciousness.  Just when Theon thought he would die from another stroke, it stopped.  Ramsay approached, gently raising Theon’s breeches and tugging them back into place.  But as the roughspun fabric pressed against his scourged buttocks, he whimpered and sobbed against the ferocious stinging it caused.  He knew, as well, that the blood would congeal and glue the fabric to his skin.  No doubt, on the morrow, he would have them yanked down again just to re-open the wounds. 

 

“Now have you learned your lesson?”

 

This time, Theon forced himself to give a verbal reply.  “Yes, Master.  Thank you, Master.” He choked each word out between stifled sobs.

 

Evidently satisfied, Ramsay rounded the frame to face Theon.  The razor’s edge flashed once more, cutting him free of his bindings.  Immediately, his weak knees gave out and he tumbled to the floor once more.  He tried to stand, before Ramsay could grow angry with him again, but it was impossible.  The next thing he knew, there were more people in the cell with them and he was being hoisted up by the armpits and fixed back to the X-frame, facing outwards this time at least.  But having his arms outstretched caused his flogged back to scream in pain and his backside was pushed into the join of the frame.  Wriggling violently, desperately trying to put himself in a position less agonising.  He failed miserably and abandoned himself to more whining and crying. 

 

Meanwhile, Ramsay regarded him from the other side of the cell with his arms folded across his chest.  There was no emotion there.  Just an impassive gaze, like an art critic appraising the work of an apprentice.  It was all so very routine.

 

“I’m so sorry, master,” Theon whimpered, even though he knew his pleading was futile.  “Please forgive me, I’m so very sorry.  I know I deserved it and I know I deserved thrice of what you gave me.  But please forgive me; I’ll never let you down again, I promise-“

 

He cut himself off as Ramsay raised one hand for silence. 

 

When Theon settled again, Ramsay approached him slowly.  He stopped only when he was barely an inch from Theon, then looked him dead in the eye as he produced the razor one more time.  Theon could see the sinister geometry of the blade’s edge, glinting in the pale gold light as the point pressed into his navel.

 

“If you ever do something like that to me again,” he said, pressing the edge of the razor in deeper, “you know what I will cut off next.”

 

Gradually, the drew the blade down across his belly, towards his groin. The path of the blade was marked wet with blood.  All the pain combined and now made Theon’s head spin like a child’s top.  Still he managed to nod.

  
“Yes, Master.”

 

Ramsay’s grim widened; pale blue eyes all aglitter.  “I’m glad we understand each other.”

 

The blade had cut a path below the waist of unlaced breeches, just above his penis.  Parts of that had already been cut away, too.  Inch by inch, Theon was being stripped to the bones.  But he still didn’t understand.  He knew he never really would.  That was the razor’s edge that Ramsay kept him on.  That was Theon’s life. 

 

“Now, Reek, all is forgiven.  In the morning, you can return to your duties.  Aren’t you a lucky boy?”

 

Again, he nodded.  “Yes, Master.  I’m very lucky to have you.”

 

 _Reek,_ he reminded himself.  _My name is Reek_. 


End file.
